


Wildflowers

by Thorinsmut



Series: Free Orcs Asides [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Body Modification, Boromir is in love with his Hobbits, Casual Sex, Distrust, Everyone lives because Free Orcs fixes everything, F/M, Free Orcs, Free Orcs AU, Ilzkaal and Boromir are friends with benefits, M/M, M/M/M Threesome, Not canon to the main storyline, Open Relationships, Pegging, Scarification, Sex, Smut, Someone had to peg Boromir's sweet Gondorian butt, The Author Regrets Nothing, and Ilzkaal's just the lady to do it, but if I can't make an AU for my AU then what is fanfiction good for?, growth of friendship, lots of blood, near-fatal injuries, not kidding about the blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Ilzkaal of the free Orcs, granddaughter of Azog, had joined the Fellowship of the Ring? </p><p>(everything turns out better, that's what)</p><p>(Also, pegging)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the Council of Elrond](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508531) by [Thorinsmut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut). 



> WARNING!  
> This fic is tagged for graphic depictions of violence and for lots of blood and body modification. The beginning part is pretty nasty and everyone's bleeding and stuff.  
> Be Warned.
> 
> This fic is an AU of and AU and follows after "[The Council of Elrond](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1508531)" in the Free Orcs AU, and [this tumblr short](http://thorinsmut.tumblr.com/post/83760283250/i-have-been-given-flowers-and-fed-popcorn-irl-and) about Ilzkaal.

.

The first arrow slammed through Boromir's shoulder. He fell to his knees, breathless in the pain for just an instant before he was up again – fighting the Uruk-hai and blowing his horn to call for aid.

Anything... _anything_ to protect his Merry and Pip...

The Uruk with the crossbow aimed at him again, but the arrow this time was intercepted by a mountain of pale muscle. Ilzkaal threw herself between Boromir and the Uruk, and the arrow pierced _her_ this time. She ripped it from her arm with a roar and stabbed herself in the opposite arm to match – throwing it to the ground as she flung herself into the battle with her dark blood staining her arms.

Despite all their differences, Boromir would _never_ deny that Ilzkaal was a powerful warrior. Who better than an Orc to fight against Orcs? She had proven her battle prowess time and again, and this time was no different.

Save that they were outnumbered so terribly, and with no chance of escape.

They fought side by side – the power of an Orc with the strength of Gondor, but it was not enough.

Not enough to keep Merry and Pip safe, when they left their hiding space to try to help – always so brave.

 _So_ brave and that's why he loved them.

So brave and they were picked up by the Uruk-hai and carried off, and neither Boromir nor Ilzkaal could stop it.

Ilzkaal wailing her distress when wide-eyed little Fiil was grabbed also, trying to reach the Hobbits.

They were wounded, both of them terribly, before the last of the Uruk-hai passed them, leaving only the one with the crossbow to finish them.

Ilzkaal, slumped beside Boromir, turned her blazing pale eyes on the Uruk and bared all her sharp teeth – stained dark with her own blood from where her face had been cut.

The Uruk laughed roughly, making a show of reloading the crossbow to taunt them as he walked up to them.

The only warning there was was a slight twitch to her hand – faster than Boromir could see in the fog of his pain Ilzkaal had pulled a fresh sharp knife from _somewhere_ in her gleaming spiked armor and flung herself bodily on the Uruk.

It was over quickly, an explosive attack ending with her astride the Uruk – her long knife driven clear through him to pin him to the earth.

“I am sorry, my brother...” she said, quietly, looking down at him, “You should have been _free_.”

“There _is_ no freedom.” he answered, and died laughing at her, dark blood bubbling out between his teeth.

Ilzkaal rolled off of the Uruk to lay bleeding in the dirt with something that sounded like a curse – everything in Orcish sounded like a curse – when Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli _finally_ arrived.

.

Boromir was dead. He knew he was.

He'd seen enough soldiers die to know death wounds.

He sent Aragorn, his _King,_ after the Hobbits. If he only knew his Merry and Pip would be safe, he could die in peace. But that was not given to him.

He heard Ilzkaal saying much the same to Gimli, charging him with finding Merry and Pippin and Fiil.

Boromir could have asked for a mercy stroke, to end it quickly, but maybe he was too much coward for it. He lay, waiting for the end, while Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli discarded most of their possessions and ran in pursuit of the Uruk-hai and the members of their Fellowship who needed them most.

After Boromir had failed Frodo so completely. He would have thought, if anyone, it would be the Orcs who would betray the cause – and then he did it himself.

Ilzkaal lay not far away, her breaths roughly pained in the quiet.

Boromir had thought he might die surrounded by Orcs, but never that one would have been dying beside him as a comrade in arms.

An _Orc_.

“So much for the strength and resilience of Orcs.” Boromir said, _anything_ to take his mind from the pain and despair. An argument would do. “You are left behind... just as I am.”

Ilzkaal snarled, pulling herself all the way up to her knees – impossible to tell how much of the blood on her was her own with his vision swimming before him.

“I am an _Orc_.” she growled at him, her voice harsh gravel, “I can still fight. I could _run_ until I fell down _dead_...” She swayed and caught herself with her hands on the ground.

“...but I _would_ die, before I caught up with them.” she admitted, something breaking in her voice. “The Uruk-hai will not hurt your Hobbits. And Fiil... Fiil is clever, he will find a way to survive capture.”

Ilzkaal breathed deeply, the sound of her lungs rough in the silence, “I will rest here, and _live_.” she said.

...she was going to live? Ah, why should that have surprised him? He _knew_ how hard Orcs were to kill. Like vermin.

Boromir had no heart to bait her further.

“Give me... a good burial.” he requested quietly, and her head shot up, her pale eyes wide.

Ilzkaal cursed again in Orcish – or he assumed it was a curse. “Your blood is thin... you need care.”

She loomed over him, prodding at his wounds with her big hands, ignoring his attempts to bat her away.

“Binding them will not be enough...” she said, even as she put pressure on the worst of them to slow the blood loss. Sweat beaded on her bald scalp and she swayed where she knelt – but her hands were steady.

Ilzkaal cut strips from his clothes, when he would rather have died well dressed. She pressed her hand to the arrow wound on her arm, hissing as she kneaded at it, and drew her hand back thickly covered with her blood.

She shoved into the worst of Boromir's wounds.

“No... no, why? No.” Boromir protested, unable through the shock and the pain to articulate more than the horror of Orc blood in his wounds.

“It will seal the wound.” Ilzkaal said roughly, binding the wound closed with strips of his clothing. “...at least... it works with Wargs.” she added.

“Infection and disease, even _if_ it closes...” Boromir protested. Even without Orc blood in the wounds his clothes were not clean enough for bandages. He would not survive the inevitable infection.

Better to fade quickly than die like that.

Ilzkaal's nostrils flared, eyes blazing, but she bit back what was clearly on the tip of her tongue as she kneaded at the arrow wound for more blood.

“I am not _diseased_.” she finally said, as she pressed the blood into another wound, binding it quickly, “You will live, son of Gondor. You will see Minas Tirith again if I have to _carry_ you to it.”

“...they would kill you on sight.” Boromir answered, everything fogged through the pain so he did not know until after it was out of his mouth how it sounded.

“I know.” Ilzkaal answered shortly, tending and binding his smaller wounds until all that was left was the arrow through his shoulder. She broke the fletching off, clearly deciding that pushing it through was the best option.

She kneaded at her arrow wound on her arm again... and then at something on her side... a dark mass of blood on her thigh... coming back each time with her hand empty.

Her massive shoulders slumped, and she wiped at her forehead with the back of her arm.

“They closed...” she said, looking lost and young, “They closed, but I need...”

“...should have let me die in peace...” Boromir said, and there was a flash of rage on her face.

“What would your Merry and Pippin say if they heard that?” She spat, and grabbed up a knife.

Boromir flinched. He did not know _what_ he expected, but it was _not_ for her to bring the blade down across her uninjured thigh to match the injured one.

“No...” he gasped in shock as she gathered a new handful of blood – then she'd shifted him up so she could pull the arrow through.

Boromir lost consciousness to the sound of his own scream and the feeling of her fingers following the hole of the arrow shaft through to clear the wound.

.

Boromir woke slowly, confused. His entire body ached, and his throat was parched. He had vague memories of fighting – being pinned down. The scent of burning Orcs. Spicy liquid being given him to drink.

Strange disjointed pieces that made no clear whole. After Ilzkaal tended him he remembered so _little_ ... but from the itching ache of his wounds it had been _days_ since then.

He did not recognize where he was, a cool cavern, the ceiling low. It took some time of staring at the odd shapes of it to realize it was the boats from Lothlorien that made up the roof.

He turned his head experimentally, finding that it only made a few of his wounds twinge. Nearby, sitting up against the wall with her eyes closed, was Ilzkaal. She was dressed as he'd only seen her a time or two – in nothing but a loincloth of soft leather. Her pale blue scars were joined now by fresh dark wounds that would have killed a Man, ragged scar splitting her lip on the right side.

“Ilz...kaal.” Boromir managed to croak, after a few tries, and her pale eyes shot open. She did not move from her reclining position.

“Water?” Boromir asked. She nodded as she moved carefully to his side, but it was not water that she brought to his lips. It stung as he sipped, and he sputtered.

“The Uruk-hai carried an _akrumlob_.” Ilzkaal said, “The _bulmos-akrum_ will give you strength.”

Much as he disliked the idea of drinking anything Orcish, Boromir was not really in a position to argue it. It burned like a good strong gingerbeer as he drank, and it did soothe his thirst.

“Thank you.” he said, when he was done. Much as they had their differences, he was in Ilzkaal's debt. “How long have I been...”

“Long enough.” she answered shortly, and he let it go. He would figure it out another time.

“They say fever makes Men speak their hearts.” She said through her sharp teeth, and her pale eyes were hard above him, “If the kingsfoil brought you back from it now, I will say this to you only _once_. I am not your enemy. I am no traitor and I am no spawn of Mordor. I am neither filthy, nor diseased, nor craven. Finally, my blood is _not_ turning you into an Orc.” Her jaw was tense but her tone terribly calm as she spoke.

“For the gift of your life you can thank Merry and Pippin, the kin of Bilbo Baggins, _Gashnal-gaz_. For that friendship, I have preserved the life of their lover... but I will not bear your insults again.”

Boromir _did not know_ what he had said to her in his fever, but his mind caught on Merry and Pippin.

His loves.

How did she _know_?

“I... I...” He scrabbled, “The Hobbits... they are...”

She tilted her head slightly, “Was it meant to be a secret?” She asked, “Certainly you were quiet, but the scent of your coupling was there for anyone to pick up.”

All those nights... all those nights seduced by the laughing cousins crawling into his bedroll. They had been _so_ careful, and all along the Orcs had known...

Before he could say more – try to explain or _anything_ – Ilzkaal had moved back and left him alone in the little shelter.

...and he was tired. Boromir closed his eyes and held tight to the sweet hope of his Merry and Pip rescued by Aragorn to stave off the pain until he could sleep.

.

Ilzkaal was gone for long hours, and with Boromir crippled by his injuries with nothing to do but _think_ it was far too easy to imagine her conferring with other Orcs.

Changing sides.

Betraying him.

He said none of it – he was dependent on her for _everything –_ but maybe she read it in his face regardless.

They changed camps when Boromir was able to walk a little. Ilzkaal still had to nearly carry him most of the way, but it was a comfortable and hidden cave she'd found to replace their little lean-to.

She said there were too many groups of Mordor and Isengard slaves moving too near where their other camp was.

Even moved further out of the way, they camped very quietly.

And Boromir, injured, was a sitting duck waiting to be caught. He tried not to let his doubts assail him, but the longer Ilzkaal was gone the more sure he became that she was abandoning him to fend for himself or leading Mordor Orcs to him.

He did what he could to tend to their camp, with what little energy he had. He gathered small sticks for the fire and modified what Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli had left behind to outfit himself again – and tried not to let his doubts overwhelm him.

Ilzkaal returned in the evening, the Uruk-hai's crossbow on her side, a brace of cleaned hares over her shoulder, and an incongruous wreath of little yellow flowers around one wrist.

She set herself down beside the fire with a heavy groan before she started carving up the hares into a pot for cooking. Though she had healed far faster than Boromir was, she was still slower moving than she'd been – more easily tired.

He watched her carefully for any sign of the betrayal his mind had whispered to him in her absence.

“We are bound by blood, now.” Ilzkaal said, sudden in the silence, “If I killed you, I would kill a piece of myself.”

Boromir could feel his face reddening. He had kept his doubts to himself, thought he had hidden them well.

“I have promised to see you safely to Minas Tirith once you are able to travel. Is my word not _enough_ for you?” she asked, and he could not meet the accusation in her eyes.

His whole _life_ he had known that Orcs were monsters. His whole life they had been his enemy. Ilzkaal had proven herself time and again – but still he could not help doubting.

“I will try harder.” He answered, but she gave only a small grunt in acknowledgment and continued working on the food.

There was no more conversation between them that night.

.

They had traveled together in the Fellowship for months, but Boromir had never spent so much time with Ilzkaal. Beyond arguments, they had rarely spoken.

Now there was no one else to form a buffer between them.

They still argued, but now he saw more than that.

He heard her, sometimes, singing mournful songs to the night.

Boromir saw Ilzkaal caring for both of their weapons and armor with cloths and blade oil salvaged from the Uruk-hai, meticulously repairing and shining her armor. He had not thought much about that armor before – just that it was sharp and glittering – but with nothing better to do than watch across the camp he saw how carefully designed it was. He saw how perfectly it was fitted to her, and the tiny cut stones that had been inlayed to decorate it. It was as ornate in its own way as court dress armor, and yet it was fully functional for defense.

He saw her decorate herself with flowers whenever she had come across them in her scouting and hunting, until it no longer seemed incongruous for the massive scarred warrior to be wearing them.

If she grew impatient with how helpless he was, recovering so slowly, she hid it perfectly. She provided food for them, and provided him with what he needed to care for his wounds, and tended to what he could not reach himself.

Boromir saw how careful she was with her cleanliness. He had seen it traveling with the Fellowship, but now he _saw_ it. There was a small pool in a stream not far from their camp, and Ilzkaal used it frequently – washing their clothes and scrubbing her pale skin until she gleamed like mother-of-pearl.

She had absolutely no body shame, and seemed to think nothing of walking bare through the camp if her clothes were drying. The few women Boromir'd had the chance to be with – a soldier in wartime – had been shy of being looked at, keeping at least a little covered until the lamps were out. Ilzkaal was much more like the soldiers Boromir was more used to – once a company was all completely used to each other. Boromir would have thought he had no shame either, he'd grown up a soldier among soldiers... but he could not bring himself to be bare in her presence.

Even as a youth Boromir had been broad-shouldered and strong. He had _never_ been quite as small as he was beside Ilzkaal's muscled bulk.

Ilzkaal said nothing about his shyness – offering him what privacy she could when he wanted to wash himself.

“Fiil did not like to be looked at either.” Ilzkaal dismissed simply when Boromir tried to thank her for it. He _was_ trying to be better, to thank her for things she did.

...to not suspect her of betrayal. If she wanted to, she'd had ample chance, and had not.

Boromir healed slowly, and he and Ilzkaal _did_ still argue, but they could also _talk_ sometimes. She heard of Minas Tirith, of Faramir, of his youth running through the halls of Kings as a squire. He heard of Gundabad, of music and art, of the craftsmanship of the Orcs, of her sister Aanash and her parents and her famous grandfather Azog.

Ilzkaal only rarely lost her temper with him, but even when she did she never _threatened_ him. One such time was when he'd been worrying over the fate of his Merry and Pip again. It seemed impossible for them to have survived. Ilzkaal suddenly snarled and shoved at the fire with a stick.

“Merry and Pippin, yes.” She growled, “But there were _three_ of the Fellowship taken by the Uruk-hai. Have you spared even a single thought for Fiil? The Uruk-hai would have been ordered not to hurt the Hobbits, but Fiil had _no_ protection at all. What might they do to _him_?”

Boromir blinked up at her, at a loss for words. His instinct was to protest that Fiil was an _Orc_ , but he knew well enough now to know that slave Orcs would not see a free Orc as kin.

Boromir _hadn't_ spared much care to Fiil's fate, in his worry about Merry and Pippin.

“You are not the _only_ one who lost a lover that day.” Ilzkaal snarled, throwing her stick on the fire and stalking out of their cave to leave him alone.

He let her have her space – he'd pushed himself too far and was too sore to move from his bedding regardless – but he did apologize to her when she returned.

Ilzkaal shrugged one shoulder to acknowledge him, but said nothing.

Watching her set up her bedroll across the camp, it struck Boromir suddenly that Ilzkaal was _young_. She was big, and proud, and she was a ferocious warrior, but she was young. Her people had sent her as a messenger to the Elves because she spoke Sindarin, and she had ended up clinging to the tiny hope of the Fellowship – running directly into war.

And now she was alone, save for him – and he was not good company.

“I did not know Fiil was your lover.” Boromir said, quietly, and she shrugged again.

“We were not paired.” Ilzkaal answered, just as quiet in her rough voice, “He was my friend... we offered each other comfort.”

Comfort and friendship. They had little enough of _that_ to offer each other.

.

Boromir healed slowly, and it irked him that he was so slow – that he was trapped _here_ in the wilds with no way to know how the world fared outside their small camp, that he was not _home_ to help his people. Their camp was quiet, a pocket of peace good for recovery, while he _knew_ war that would determine the fate of the world raged outside.

Boromir healed slowly, and Ilzkaal took to scouting further. She was gone overnight on more than one occasion, searching for the best way to get them to Minas Tirith. They could not portage the boats, not with Boromir still so weak, so they would have to be abandoned.

He surprised her when she returned late one evening with roasting fish on the coals of a fire. He had no luck with the snares she hunted small game with, but he'd remembered the simple cone-shaped funnel traps some of his soldiers used to make and had managed to make one of willow switches good enough to catch a few decently sized fish from their stream.

He laughed at her pleased surprise, and magnanimously offered her her choice of the fish.

She smiled back with her sharp teeth and accepted.

“I have found our path down.” Ilzkaal said when they were done eating, “It will not be easy. You must regain more strength first.”

“That will take time.” Boromir sighed, pressing at the aching arrow wound through his shoulder, “I do not have the recovery of an Orc.”

She looked at him with surprised confusion in her eyes but said nothing. It was only later he realized it was the first time he'd mentioned a strength of her people when he was not baiting her into an argument.

.

Boromir had thought he was growing to understand Ilzkaal. To get along with her, growing able to predict her.

She did not like to sit idle, scouting and hunting even if they did not necessarily need it, but he had thought they were both of them getting along as well as could be expected.

He was caught completely off guard when he brought his clothes to wash in their little pool and came across her sitting at the water's edge covered in her own dark blood.

She used one big shining knife as a mirror as she aimed a smaller one against her face.

Boromir made a sound, an inarticulate sound of horror, negation. He'd thought they were doing well, the both of them, but here she was like a soldier who broke – Boromir had seen it happen more than once but not as bad as _this_...

“No, Ilzkaal...” he'd dropped his clothes, limping toward her with his hands outstretched.

She looked toward him, as though waiting his explanation. Was she so distanced from what she was doing to herself?

“Why are you cutting yourself?” he asked, “Put the knives down?”

She snorted briefly, turning away from him to look at herself in the reflection of the big knife again as she positioned the smaller one.

“Tend to your beauty in the ways of your people, son of Gondor.” She said calmly, her pale eyes briefly meeting his in the reflection of the knife, “I will tend to mine in the ways of mine.” With a quick flick of her hand she slashed the smaller knife across the left side of her face, dark blood welling out of her lip to mirror the right side that had been scarred in the fight against the Uruk-hai.

Boromir's entire body clenched away from the thought of it, and he _could not_ watch as she calmly moved the knife to another spot.

He turned and fled as fast as he could limp away. When he realized he'd left his clothes behind, he did not dare go back for them.

Ilzkaal returned to camp, looking calm and happy, after Boromir had not had _nearly_ enough time to come to terms with what she had been doing – though he was not sure if _any_ amount of time would have sufficed. Everything looked less bad, Ilzkaal had cleaned herself so all that was left were the dark lines of fresh wounds against her pale skin.

'Tending to her beauty', she had called it, and looking at the new lines to compliment her original blued scars and her battle scars... Boromir could _almost_ see it. She had new lines from her brow following the high curve of her head, both sides of her lip split now so her sharp teeth flashed through, and new symmetry in lines on her body, adding to and mirroring the wounds she had received.

She looked fierce and wild, and maybe that was beauty among Orcs.

The lines... they matched the ones he'd seen her drawing on herself with ash ink and a dried grass stalk. She had tried out different ones, worn them for a little while – and he had thought it was another thing like the flowers, just that she liked decoration. He had not imagined she was trying out the shapes for new scars.

Ilzkaal had his clothes with her, and she hung them to dry without saying a word. She had _washed his clothes_ after hurting herself so?

Ilzkaal began organizing the firewood for the evening, then gathered up the crossbow for protection the way she always did when she was going to check her snares, like it was any normal day.

“Does it not hurt?” Boromir asked.

“I am an Orc.” Ilzkaal answered simply. Those words she said, that meant so much to her. The strength and superiority of Orcs was implied in her pride. 'I am strong enough' she meant.

She was moving a little slower, maybe, but she still did all she normally did in the camp that evening. The euphoric calm still had not left her, a relaxation in her massive shoulders he did not normally see.

“Are you beautiful?” Boromir asked, over their dinner. It seemed strange to call anyone so big and ferocious beautiful, but he wondered after what she had said.

“Some have said I am, and others have not.” Ilzkaal answered, after a pause for thought. “Are you?”

That was a strange question to ponder.

“I thought I was, in my youth.” Boromir answered, with a small smile for his own cockiness before he became just another tired soldier.

“...the Hobbits made me feel as though I were...” he added quietly, an ache behind his breastbone for the brave little lovers who could not _really_ have survived. What did Hobbits know of war?

“Mmm.” Ilzkaal answered agreeably, and they did not converse much more that night.

Ilzkaal's quiet good mood lasted past the time they bedded down for the night. Boromir had spent most of his life among soldiers – he was familiar enough with the language of quietly quickened breaths in the night. He would have thought nothing of it... but she was a _woman_. It had never occurred to him that women might take their pleasure alone in the same way.

And yet, there was no denying the quiet roughening of breaths and the soft sound of blankets rustling.

Boromir kept his eyes closed, his back to her, and he tried not to picture what that would even _entail_.

.

Boromir and Ilzkaal argued less and talked more, as he regained his strength. They had both become comfortable with each other. Boromir no longer felt so vulnerable to be bare in her presence. They'd had a splash war in their pool of the stream when they were done washing their clothes, and they were both laughing as they left the water. Boromir gladly accepted Ilzkaal's hand to pull him up the stream bank. He was much stronger than he had been, but he still needed help with harder tasks.

Soon they would be able to leave. Already they were drying fish and game to supplement their supplies for the journey.

Not that they knew what they would find, once they made it to Minas Tirith. Insulated here in their camp there was no way to know how the war fared, and he feared the worst for his home.

“About Fiil...” Boromir ventured, as they hung their clothes up to dry in camp. “Were you not worried about getting with child?”

Ilzkaal laughed, her ferocious sharp teeth exposed – but he no longer felt threatened by them when her expression was, like now, a pleasant one.

“No.” she said, “He did not enter me.”

Boromir nodded. It made sense that she would be careful... but then...

“So how...” Boromir started, before he decided it was no business of his and he should stop asking things.

“I have... let me show you.” Ilzkaal answered, though he had not finished the question, delving into her belongings to bring out a carved shape of pale stone – bulbed on one end and the other...

Well, there was no denying it was carved to look like a cock. Boromir could feel his face heating in embarrassment as he looked at it. It looked small in her hands, but Boromir would guess it was of a size with his own.

“...you have never seen one of these.” Ilzkaal said, watching him, but her smile was not unkind, and Boromir shook his head.

“It works like this...” she said, settling down comfortably on the stone she'd chosen for her chair in their cave and gesturing him close. She leaned back, spreading the plump lips of her hairless sex with the fingers of one hand while she guided the bulb end to it, rubbing it lightly over the dark bluish flesh until it was slick and wet and she guided it inside herself... narrating the entire time.

“This part rubs me inside when it moves... and this part rubs against my - what your people would call my pearl.”

“...pearl...” Boromir repeated in a daze. He had _never_ seen a woman like this... always it had been quick and quiet in the dark, not spread out before him.

“This right here. It is sensitive, like your cock head. Have you never seen?” She showed him a little nubbin of flesh nestled in the soft folds above her entrance, “...and this part...” Ilzkaal had the carved stone cock fully seated in her sex now, the pale stone nestling between her lips as though it had _grown_ there – and far more familiar to him.

She smiled at him as she stroked the stone cock that jutted out stiffly from her, “ _This_ part is for my lover.” her scarred stomach tensed, her hips jumping slightly as she gave it another firm stroke.

Ilzkaal was smiling at him, and Boromir had halfway reached toward it to feel what it was _like_ when he realized what he was doing.

All the blood in his body rushed to his face, what little of it had not made a break south – leaving him hard as stone himself.

“I...” Boromir stumbled backward, grabbing his pants to shove them awkwardly on as he retreated, “I.. must see to... something...” he babbled, and fled.

There _was_ nothing for Boromir to check on – he was unarmed and had not even brought his _boots_ – so he did not go far.

He sat on a rock and waited until he was completely calm, and a little longer, before he returned to the camp.

He had not thought, after he fell so in love with Merry and Pippin, that he would want anyone else ever again. But now only a month after losing them he had _wanted_...

Nevermind that she was an _Orc_.

But Ilzkaal was the friend he owed his life to, and she was kind, and big and strong in the way he'd admired in older men in his youth...

...but an _Orc_...

Ilzkaal was dressed when he returned to the camp, and waved off his attempt at an apology.

“I was too forward.” She said simply, and with that it was put to rest between them. Boromir knew enough of Orcish mores, from talking with her, to know that the offer of a lover was often made lightly among them.

Like soldiers offering each other comfort on long marches, only to return to their lovers at home. That was something he knew well, it made sense to him. It was what he had always done, before he met his Hobbits, though he took few lovers at home. It had always been easy for him, a simple camaraderie among soldiers he'd always preferred to the complication and distraction of courting women.

...and she was _like_ no woman he'd ever known, their companionship much closer to what he shared with his soldiers. It would probably be as simple and easy as lying with another soldier.

But he was not sure he could.

.

A month after the fight with the Uruk-hai and the breaking of the Fellowship, Boromir and Ilzkaal were packing to leave their hidden camp. Boromir still was not strong enough to carry much beyond his bedroll, especially not in the rough terrain they would be climbing down, and Ilzkaal had always favored a minimal pack for traveling. They did not carry much with them.

Boromir felt it, faintly – like a shudder in the air or a movement in the earth beneath his feet. He would have dismissed it entirely as a brief return of the dizziness from his injuries if Ilzkaal had not fallen to her knees with a snarl.

“Ilzkaal!” Boromir was at her side, hand on her shoulder where he could _reach_ through her spiked armor.

“Gone.” she breathed.

“What is?” Boromir asked, and she looked up at him with her pale eyes wide and her scarred lips spread in a fierce smile.

“Frodo _made_ it.” Ilzkaal's tone was breathless in disbelief as she surged back to her feet, “He _must_ have, it is _gone_.”

“How do you know?” Boromir asked. It did not seem possible, the Fellowship's chance of success had been too small for hope to begin with, how _could_ Frodo and Sam have made it into Mordor alone, and destroyed the Ring?

“Like a hand...” Ilzkaal said, her broad hand spanning the back of Boromir's neck to push _down_ on him, “I never _knew_ was there, but now...” she lifted her hand, and Boromir staggered slightly at the sudden lightness.

“Mordor is defeated.” She said, wonder and hope and disbelief warring on her face.

“Then there is hope.” Boromir said, “We must get to Minas Tirith.”

Ilzkaal nodded once, and they both returned to their preparations.

But even with Mordor possibly defeated, what might have happened to Gondor in his absence? What kind of welcome might he expect to find?

.

Ilzkaal and Boromir traveled together, down the cliffs by the Great Falls and quietly through the lands between them and Minas Tirith. They were careful, keeping out of sight. If they came across Men they would kill Ilzkaal on sight, and while Ilzkaal was certain if they came across wandering bands of lost Orcs she could easily ally them to the free Orcs, Boromir was not so confident.

Best they stayed out of _everyone's_ sight.

Boromir did his best to keep up with Ilzkaal's pace, and Ilzkaal did her best not to push him too hard. He _was_ still healing, though the worst of it was over. All that was left was the slow return of strength. Ilzkaal decorated herself with flowers as she walked, weaving necklaces and bracelets and wreaths. Sometimes she decorated _him_ with them too, and Boromir laughed and allowed her to crown him with little spring blooms. Who was there to see?

And Merry and Pip would have approved.

The land was marked with the passage of armies, but the marks were not fresh enough for either of them to know which direction they had been traveling.

As they made it into Anórien, there was more sign of war. Those few people who had not fled, who Boromir approached alone, were wary of a ragged soldier. He got no trade and little news – just that soldiers were returning home.

Boromir and Ilzkaal kept their travels quiet, keeping out of sight and traveling always toward Minas Tirith.

They lay side by side in the dark, Orc and Man, just two companions in arms clinging to a ragged hope. They rested in their hidden camp – their tiny cook fire long since stamped out. Boromir _was_ tired from a long day's walking, but he could not sleep. His mind was too full.

“I am afraid.” Boromir confessed quietly, and Ilzkaal shifted beside him, listening attentively. “I am afraid I will learn of the fate of Merry and Pippin and Fiil, and I am afraid that I will _never_ know what befell them. I am afraid that you are wrong and Mordor was _not_ defeated. I am afraid you are right and Mordor is defeated, but that Minas Tirith fell first. I am afraid that I will return home, and have no family or people to return to.”

The words felt raw in the air, but he continued, “I am afraid that you and I are the only survivors of the Fellowship... I am afraid that I will lead you to Minas Tirith, and will not be able to keep you safe there. That there will be no welcome for you, and my own soldiers will kill the person who saved my life and brought me home.”

“I fear many of the same things.” Ilzkaal answered. “I wonder if it would be best to part ways – to go to Mordor alone, to gather my lost brothers and sisters to freedom.”

“I would not blame you.” Boromir told her, but she shook her head – just visible in the dim moonlight.

“I would never learn the fate of Fiil and the rest of the Fellowship that way.” She said, “And I swore I would see you home.”

Boromir nodded, sighing, his thoughts still stirring in his mind.

“I will never sleep.” He sighed.

Ilzkaal wordlessly reached over to lay her hand on his chest, a warm weight to steady him for just a moment before she drew it back to herself again.

Brief as it had been, he missed the contact.

He was familiar enough with the feeling, the nervousness that drove soldiers into each other's bedrolls, desperate to lose themselves in the release. It was simple and easy among soldiers – and with Ilzkaal it could be too, if he let it be.

“You offered comfort...” Boromir started.

“No.” he answered himself, “No, I love Merry and Pippin.” the brave laughing lovers who had seduced him and stolen his heart.

Ilzkaal lay still beside him for a moment before she answered, her rough deep voice careful in its gentleness, “It would help me sleep also... Would your Hobbits _blame_ you for seeking release without them, when you do not know of their fate? They did not seem jealous to me.”

Boromir closed his eyes, the memory of Merry and Pippin crawling into his bed wearing nothing but matched mischievous grins on their faces so clear he could almost _touch_ it. He had not been able to resist them for long – and when he told them he loved them both they had been _so_ happy.

They had talked of other lovers, both that they'd taken together and separately. Merry and Pippin loved each other, and they did not ask each other not to take other lovers.

They probably would not mind, if they were alive – and if they had not survived...

Boromir flinched away from the thought. He would deal with that _if_ he had to, and no sooner.

Beside him in the moonlight Ilzkaal was waiting for his answer, dim light gleaming off pale scarred skin.

“I do not think they would.” He answered finally, reaching for her, “Would you...”

Her big hand was back resting on his chest, and he could feel his heartbeat picking up beneath it.

“I could use my hands on you, and teach you how to use your hands or mouth for me.” she offered, “Or I could get my stone cock and...”

“Yes. If you would.” Boromir said, feeling his face heat. If he wanted to quiet his thoughts, there was nothing better than to be taken that way.

“Mmm... we still have blade oil...” Ilzkaal mused, pleased, as she rolled away from him to rummage in her pack. She handed him a small vial he recognized from what she'd scavenged from the Uruk-hai.

Boromir hesitated for only a tiny moment against the thought of using something Orcish as slick, before dismissing the thought as ridiculous. Soon enough he would have something much _more_ Orcish in him, and he shucked his trousers off as Ilzkaal removed her clothes also and took the carved stone cock into her blankets to prepare herself.

The blade oil smelled like blade oil, no more foul than any of its kind. Boromir had used it in this capacity most of his life. He wetted his fingers generously with it and reached down to carefully work them inside himself.

If there was a fine tremble of nervousness in his hands as he idly stroked his cock to hardness, stretching himself open, he could ignore it or pretend that it was only that it had been so long. Ilzkaal ran her fingers through his hair, softly affectionate, and he pressed into the comfort of it.

When he was ready he opened his blankets to her, urged her above him. In the dim moonlight the pale stone of her carved cock was indistinguishable from her skin, it was only when he reached down to touch it that he could tell where her body ended and it began. He stroked blade oil generously over it, the stone cooler than her body but warming quickly. She made an approving little growl as he tugged it, shifting it against her, _inside_ her.

He reached up with his unoiled hand to touch her face, feeling the scars beneath his fingers and wishing he could see more of her expression in the dark. She rubbed her cheek into his hand, and that affection was comforting.

“Here...” he guided her to his entrance, legs around the bulk of her body, shuddering as he felt the slick hardness of the stone against him.

“Ready?” Ilzkaal asked.

“Go gently.” Boromir requested, and could have bit his tongue for how nervous and inexperienced he sounded.

Ilzkaal bent down over him, not pressing into him yet, nuzzling her cheek against the roughness of his. Boromir's arm found its way around her neck, clinging to her shoulders to hold the huge-muscled Orc close to him.

“I would not hurt you.” she murmured, “I want this to feel good for you.”

“It will.” He said, just as quiet. It was a sensation he enjoyed, even if he had never with an Orc or with a woman with a cock of stone, or with someone so much larger and stronger than himself.

But he did want this. He ached for it now, arching his hips to feel the tip of her cock slide slick against his entrance. The tension in him was relaxing as he held her close to his chest, his body opening to her, and he tugged her gently forward as he tightened his legs around her hips, urging her in.

“...now.” Boromir said, and Ilzkaal slid smoothly into him.

Boromir moaned, a quiet huff through his nose – a lifetime as a soldier had taught him silence. It surprised him that Ilzkaal had not, until he realized that she could not _feel_ the way he might in her place. She made a soft rough sound as she began thrusting, smooth short thrusts into him, and he moaned again.

She moved down slightly, kissing and licking at his neck, and he stroked her scarred head as she did. His other arm he wrapped around her broad back, holding her powerful body close to him.

There was no room for thought now, just the language of bodies together, strange but familiar.

He turned his face, kissing at her forehead and cheek where he could reach it, searching for her mouth.

Ilzkaal laughed softly, a little breathless, “You would not like my teeth.” she reminded, and Boromir subsided with a groan. He thrust back against her thrusts, let the intensity and pleasure of their coupling wash through him.

It felt good, but those short thrusts of Ilzkaals were not growing longer – were in fact speeding up and growing even shorter.

“Could you...” he began, but she growled.

“Close.” She said, her breath puffing out fast, “Let me... let me have mine.” She bucked up, gleaming pale in the moonlight above him as she dragged his hand to her chest.

“My scars...” she instructed, rubbing his hand across them with a moan, and he obeyed. He stroked his fingers across the raised mounds of her scars, and she arched into it the way lovers with sensitive nipples might.

Ilzkaal ground into him, short and quick, the friction of it bringing intensity nearly to the point of pain but just short of that – not at the right depth and angle for _his_ pleasure, but clearly perfect for hers.

He watched in fascination as she snarled, her sharp teeth bared in the moonlight as her body shook and arched back... before she fell trembling back down on top of him, catching herself on her elbows so she did not crush him beneath her bulk.

She gave a bone-deep groan of contentment, little shivers passing through her. Boromir shifted beneath her, her stone cock still buried deep in him. He _burned_ for his release, kissing a little desperately along her sweat-salted neck and cheek with a sound that might be so undignified as to be called a whimper.

“...better.” Ilzkaal breathed, drawing back as she began to thrust again, slower now. “Do you need more oil?”

Boromir wanted to say no, to beg her just change her angle a _little_ and let him have his release, but at the same time he did not want to be sore.

His hesitation seemed to say 'yes' to her, and she grabbed the vial of blade oil out of the dark and leaned back to pour it on her cock as she thrust into him.

The change of angle was _perfect_ , rubbing smooth and firm against the sweet spot and Boromir groaned – the sound breaking out of him how he would never allow himself in a camp of soldiers.

“There. There.” Boromir instructed unnecessarily, “Slow and _there_.”

Ilzkaal hummed, a pleased sound, as she complied. Her big hands steadied his hips as she thrust into him slow and deep.

He moaned the soft huffs he allowed himself as his body arched and trembled for her. His hands reached for her, his fingers rubbing light back and forth across her chest scars to hear her pleased moans – keeping her close, keeping her _with him_ in the pleasure.

She was beginning to breathe quickly again, snarling a little as her thighs trembled beneath his legs whenever his body clenched down on the stone cock within him.

Ilzkaal could go on like this _forever_ , Boromir realized, and that was almost terrifying. With her athletic stamina and her cock of hard stone, she could last forever. She could hold him in the burning intensity of this pleasure _forever_.

But _he_ could not last that long, Boromir dropped a hand from her scars to his own cock, stroking it rougher than he probably needed.

Ilzkaal growled at the tensing of his body, her big muscles jumping and trembling in another climax but fucking him slow and deep as he built to his release.

When the wave of his climax crested over him he nearly sobbed with relief, spending across his stomach and squirming away from Ilzkaal's cock when it grew too intense for him – and she let him go.

Ilzkaal eased the stone cock from her sex with a soft sigh, crawling across to her bedroll to reach for her pack while Boromir still lay trembling in his rumpled blankets.

For a brief muddled moment he was confused about the lack of the wet slickness of seed within him, and then laughed at himself.

Ilzkaal looked toward him, and he shook his head, “Stone cocks do not spend.” he explained, and Izlkaal's sharp teeth flashed in a brief smile in the moonlight before she brought a few soft rags over to him so he could clean up. He recognized them as some she used for conditioning weapons and armor, but it was far preferable to using handfuls of grass to clean up.

She lay down beside him, a wall of pale muscles, and he leaned comfortably against her as he cleaned up. He found his trousers after a little searching and tugged them on before spreading his blanket across them both.

His body hummed with a bone-deep contentment, his mind utterly unable to think of a single thing to worry over in the world.

“I needed that.” Ilzkaal said quietly, and he could only mumble his agreement as he drifted into sleep.

.

The gates of Minas Tirith were broken, and Boromir's heart clenched to see it. His city was battered, but stood proud still. There was life in it, and the figures moving were Men. He looked at Ilzkaal, and if he had not known her so well he would not have seen the fear in the set of her jaw.

“We do not have to.” He said, even as his heart pulled him to the city.

Ilzkaal shook her head briefly, “I have weighed the risk.” She said gruffly, and that was enough.

“They would have to kill me to harm you.” Boromir said grimly, and she smiled a little at him as they walked together toward the broken gates of Minas Tirith.

They were met by the tower guard before they reached it, as Boromir would expect – walking toward the gates with an Orc at his side.

“...do not tell them I am a woman.” Ilzkaal said quietly, her pale eyes wide as the guard approached, and he nodded his understanding to her.

“I am Boromir son of Denethor, what news in the city?” he called out as they approached, stepping between Ilzkaal and their arrows, keeping a hand on her arm, keeping her close, “This is Ilzkaal, a free Orc of Gundabad, a friend and an ally.”

The guards stopped in confusion and their leader, a man Boromir recognized in passing, stepped forward, searching his face.

“You _are_ Boromir.” he said, wondering, “Your horn washed down the Anduin, cleft in two, and your Fellowship thought you dead...”

So _some_ of the Fellowship lived, and had made it to Minas Tirith.

“I lived.” Boromir said firmly, “Ilzkaal walked also from Rivendell with Frodo, a member of the Fellowship. Without Ilzkaal, I would have succumbed to my wounds.”

The guard were lowering their bows, looking to their leader for guidance, but Boromir stayed between them and Ilzkaal, who was standing very still and tall in her gleaming armor, head and shoulders taller than the tallest of them and staring them down proudly.

“The Orc cannot enter the city.” the head of the guards decided.

“Then _I_ cannot enter the city.” Boromir answered. “The welcome you give Ilzkaal is the welcome you give me.”

 _This_ gave the guards pause, all eying him distrustfully. They murmured something that sounded like 'let the King decide', but Boromir could not be sure. His heart ached for the hope that Aragorn had lived, then, and made it here.

“We'll take the Orc's weapons, then, and...” the head guard began, and Boromir interrupted.

“Then you will take _my_ weapons.” he said, “Ilzkaal and I are bound by blood, and will share our welcome. Will you strip us bare, bind our hands, and drag me like a prisoner through the streets of the city I have fought to protect my entire life?” he demanded, and he could see in the shame of their eyes that that was _exactly_ the sort of welcome Ilzkaal could have expected.

The same welcome the Elves had thought to give her in Rivendell until she shamed them with their embarrassment at her gender.

“We will take your weapons, only.” the head guard said, as though that had been all he ever thought to take from them.

Ilzkaal gave a small nod of agreement, and Boromir handed over his sword and knife. Ilzkaal gave over her crossbow and her obvious knives. Boromir knew she had several still hidden in her armor, but said nothing as the guard surrounded them to lead them into Minas Tirith.

Boromir could almost pretend they were an honor guard, but he stayed close to Ilzkaal and met the eyes of each of the guards who surrounded them, letting them all know that any move against Ilzkaal was a move against him.

The horns should have sounded to announce his return, his banner should have unfurled to hang from the walls, but neither did. Perhaps they were damaged, but he did not think that was likely the reason.

He was thought dead and returned with an Orc at his side. They were thrown too off balance to know how to greet him.

The guards led them through the city in silence, up to the highest level, at a quick pace. Boromir was mostly healed from his wounds, but such exertion taxed him. He gave her a grateful look when Ilzkaal offered him her arm to lean against for support.

Boromir was brought to the great hall of the Stewards, but sitting on the Steward's chair was not Denethor.

It was Faramir, a tall fair woman with a warrior's face and the livery of the Rohirrim at his side. They both tensed as they took in Ilzkaal's size and bulk, but then Faramir's eyes fell to Boromir at her side and all the breath left his little brother's lungs at once. Faramir looked pale, as if he also was recovering from a wound, and he paled further when he saw Boromir.

As if he looked at a ghost.

“Brother?” Boromir asked, stepping forward with his hands outstretched, and Faramir had thrown himself from the chair with a broken cry to run into his arms.

They _both_ wept as they held to each other.

“You were dead. They said you were dead.” Faramir said, pushing him back to cup both his cheeks in his hands.

“Ilzkaal tended to my wounds.” Boromir said, turning to gesture to her, “This is Ilzkaal of the Fellowship.”

“I recognize her description, now.” Faramir said, looking up at her with his fear well hidden, “Lady Ilzkaal, I thank you for seeing my brother home. The house of the Stewards is in your debt.”

If he had heard of her, then _some_ of the Fellowship must be here.

“You must tell me all that has happened in my absence.” Boromir begged, and Faramir was nodding as he began to lead him from the hall.

He did not have the chance.

“They said that Boromir...? _Boromir!_ ” Pippin's voice called out from another door, and Boromir turned to see both Merry and Pip standing in it. Pippin was dressed as a Knight of the tower guard and Merry wore the livery of the Rohirrim – fine little warriors they looked – such a path they must have traveled to reach _here_ , and Boromir was running toward them even as they ran to him.

He fell to his knees and they crashed into him. He clung tight to them, to his sweet brave Hobbits he had not dared _hope_ he would see alive again.

Vaguely he was aware of his brother speaking to the woman of Rohan, of Fiil running into the hall as fast as he could – dropping to all fours for greater speed, and Ilzkaal tumbling with him together in a laughing heap on the floor.

Vaguely he was aware, but all he cared about were his Hobbits, Merry and Pippin in his arms again to hold tight as he sobbed his joy and relief to see them again.

For the moment nothing else mattered.

.

There had been food and joy and laughter, the entire Fellowship reunited – and just in time for the coronation, Aragorn teased.

Fiil had proudly introduced Ilzkaal to his three loyal Uruk-hai. He had managed to turn them while their prisoner, and they had helped keep Merry and Pip safe and helped them escape their captors. The five of them together were planning the reclamation of Mordor – gathering the remnants of the lost Orcs and making a southern settlement of free Orcs to compliment Gundabad in the north.

Boromir wished them luck and left them to it. Legolas and Gimli had settled their differences in his absence, it seemed, and were inseparable.

Frodo and Sam were exhausted from their ordeal in Mordor, but Hobbits were astonishingly resilient.

And forgiving.

Boromir had begged Frodo's forgiveness, and he had laughed as he gave it, easily and without condition.

Aragorn had grown into the King he was meant to be.

Faramir's lady, Éowyn, was a fine compliment to him and Boromir could see that they would do well together, and that he would grow to love her as a sister.

But all these things he did not care for as much as he should. He had his Hobbits, his Merry and Pip he thought he'd lost. They'd sat on his knees and told him their stories, laughing as they talked over each other, and he had soaked them in.

And now they were alone, he and his laughing lovers who tugged him into his room and began undressing him with their quick clever fingers stroking him everywhere, shedding their own clothes in the process.

“Slow down...” he laughed, and then, “Merry, make Pip behave!” as the younger of the Hobbits pinched his bottom.

“That's impossible, he's gotten worse than ever.” Merry said cheerfully, and they both worked together to tip Boromir onto the bed.

Boromir caught them both around their waists, rubbing his bearded face against their soft bodies to make them squirm and giggle.

“There is something I have to tell you.” Boromir said, and they stilled, listening – but they would not be patient for long, his beloved greedy little Hobbits. He had to tell them, it would not be right to try to keep it a secret.

“I _love_ you but when we were separated, I did not know... I feared that you... We were alone for so long and I...” Boromir dropped each explanation unfinished, gazing at his sweet Hobbits. All those reasons were true, but none of them would excuse what he had done.

“I lay with Ilzkaal.” He confessed, waiting for their hurt, their disgust with his infidelity.

Merry and Pippin turned to each other, wide eyed.

“Ooooh....” Pippin breathed as they turned back to him, matched grins on their faces, “Ilzkaal _let_ you have her?” Pippin asked, obviously impressed.

“N-no.” Boromir confessed, “She had _me_ , she has this stone device that...” He mimed awkwardly, his face flaming.

“Ah, the kind that straps on or the kind that goes inside?” Merry asked, nodding when Boromir indicated the second.

“Those are _fun._ ” Pip said, eyes shining, “Can you _imagine_ how he'd look under her...”

“Oh, yes....” Merry agreed, eying Boromir hungrily.

“We _have_ to convince her to do it again, and let us watch.” Pip decided, cupping Boromir's cheeks to kiss him, his little lips soft and sweet and wonderful against Boromir's.

“Or join in.” Merry said, his hands roaming freely across both Pippin and Boromir.

“You do not mind?” Boromir asked, when he had his lips free for a moment, before Pippin captured them with his again.

“Not at all.” Merry assured him, “My turn.” he told Pip, grabbing the younger Hobbit by the ear to pull him away from Boromir's lips to take his place. His kisses were bolder but slower, and no less sweet.

“We're only jealous we didn't get to watch. We'll fix that.” Pip said, kissing his way down Boromir's body, gently stroking his new scars as if to soothe them better, “Her ears are pointy, do you suppose they're sensitive like ours?”

“Her scars are.” Boromir managed when he had his lips back for a second, and both Hobbits cooed in appreciation of the possibilities. Boromir had one arm around Merry, kissing him, the other petting Pippin where he was working his way down his body, and he did not think he could be more happy.

“I'm going to climb her like a _mountain_.” Pippin declared, but Boromir could not answer because the younger Hobbit had finally worked his way to his cock and took it between his sweet clever lips. Boromir was powerless to do anything but moan into Merry's laughing mouth.

It was going to be a _long_ night of thoroughly debauching two sweet insatiable Hobbits in a proper bed, and he could think of nowhere in the world he would rather be.

There was much work to be done to rebuild his Minas Tirith and Gondor, to support Aragorn in his rule, but those were thoughts for another time.

He was home, and he had his Hobbits, and he could not be more happy.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!  
> This one took me a while to finish, but I'm glad I did!  
> <3,  
> Ts
> 
> Also, for very important art of Boromir in a flower crown, go here:  
> http://thorinsmut.tumblr.com/post/85037752443/asparklethatisblue-thorinsmut-no-but-boromir
> 
> and for a glorious size difference chart:  
> http://metalarmedhobbit.tumblr.com/post/85105494007/wanted-to-do-a-size-comparison-of-these-five-and-a
> 
> and be sure to check out the work inspired by this one! It's lovely! *points down at the link*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Into the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662083) by [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon)




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